


Stay Hot

by wearemany



Series: Rookies [4]
Category: Hockey RPF
Genre: 2013-2014 NHL Season, Los Angeles Kings, M/M, Manchester Monarchs, Multi
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-27
Updated: 2013-12-27
Packaged: 2018-01-06 09:16:37
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,490
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1105080
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wearemany/pseuds/wearemany
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“I know the dude can be intimidating as fuck,” Pears says, “but he’s sure as hell not going to turn down getting laid just because he’s on a streak.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	Stay Hot

**Author's Note:**

> This is totally Ceej's fault. As charmed as I am by the Kings' rookies, I'd felt fairly resistant to Toffoli, who is absolutely the best of class but not really my thing. 
> 
> But then our backup backup goalie—who'd been called up the same time as Pearson but hadn't yet played—started winning, and winning, and winning some more. Pears even [stayed up late](https://twitter.com/tannerpearson14/status/408114674937655296) to watch his boy's debut. [Jones got his first NHL point on a smart assist for an unusually pretty goal sniped in by Toffoli,](http://video.kings.nhl.com/videocenter/console?id=2013020533-294-h) and by then all the other kids were back down in the AHL. So.

Tyler’s phone buzzes, but all Pearson says is _call me_.

“You back in your room?” Pears asks right away, no hello, no _congratulations on your two fucking points, Toffoli_. He doesn’t wait for an answer anyway. “Where’s Joner?”

“Back in his own room?” Tyler guesses. It’s not like Pears couldn’t have called over there himself if he’s suddenly decided he needs to keep track of everyone.

“What is _wrong_ with you?”

“What?”

“Seven straight wins and he got a fucking point tonight, Ty.”

“Yeah,” Tyler snaps. “I was there.” It’s a little douchey to say but he’s still in L.A. and Pears isn’t and Tyler learned a long time ago not to apologize for playing so well he’s impossible to get rid of.

“You gotta step up,” Pears says. “It’s on you, and you haven’t done shit to congratulate him, have you?”

“That’s not—” Tyler sinks down in the armchair by the window, tugs the zipper on his sweatshirt up and down and then up again. “He’s not a part of that,” he says. That’s between him and Pears and Veysey, and probably they should all grow the fuck out of it soon.

Pears can read him even from three thousand miles away, apparently, because he says, “I know you’re busy trying and totally failing to get in Richie’s pants, but—”

“Shut up,” Tyler says, “Jesus.”

He’s obviously doing something wrong to make that happen but other than throw himself in that direction with all the subtlety of a mack truck, he’s not sure what else to do.

“I don’t get your problem with Joner.”

“I don’t have a problem.” He doesn’t. He’s just—

“I know the dude can be intimidating as fuck,” Pears says, “but he’s sure as hell not going to turn down getting laid just because he’s on a streak. Just go over there and—”

“Fuck off,” Tyler says, and hangs up. He doesn’t need a fucking coach for this.

His phone buzzes again. _Step the fuck up_ , it says.

Another buzz. _We owe him_.

Tyler groans, goes into the bathroom, splashes some water on his face and digs the lube out of his bag.

*

Jones answers the door in sweats and a white undershirt that looks right out of the package, still creased at right angles across his chest. Tyler’s barely managed to keep himself in semi-clean clothes by hitting a store every off day, and he’s sure he’s nowhere near pulling it off as well.

He doesn’t have a _problem_ with Joner. The guy is fucking great in net, calm and steady and smooth. He’s like that off the ice, too, easygoing and comfortable, spreading those long arms out over chairs and couches like he belongs wherever he is and anybody’s welcome to join him.  

The only problem with Jones is how fucking unflappable he is. Tyler’s not sure whether, even if Pears and Veysey were there—even if the three of them were naked and fucking—that it would be enough to get a reaction.

“What’s up,” Jones says mildly, as if Tyler usually shows up at his room and stares at him like a fucking deer in headlights.

“Good game,” he manages. He said it already, lined up at the end of the game to knock helmets, again in the dressing room as they finished doing media. Again in the car they shared back to the hotel.

“You too,” Jones says, just like he did all the other times. He steps back from the door. “Wanna come in?”

Like that. Like everything is just so fucking easy.

Tyler nods, shuts the door behind him. Counts to three in his head and throws the extra security lock.

Jones swivels his head back around, fast like he’s tracking the puck. It’s the most surprised Tyler’s ever seen him, and then all he can hear is Pears’ voice in his head, soft and smooth as he talks him through how to make the play work.

“We have a rule,” Tyler says, unzipping his hoodie.

Jones has turned to face Tyler again, standing stock still, shoulders squared.

“You got a point,” Tyler continues. “A point and a win, again. _Another_ win. Pears says—”

That gets the tiniest quirk of an eyebrow.

“Seven wins, three shutouts,” Tyler says. “You’re way overdue for a reward, and he and Veys are back in Manch already. So—” He shrugs his sweatshirt off entirely. Lifts the hem of his t-shirt over his head.

“So what,” Joner says finally, voice rough.

“So I figure—that makes it goalie’s choice.”

Jones says, “What?”

Tyler nods down at his half-bare body, hooks his thumbs in the belt loops of his jeans. “Whatever you want.”

Jones moves a little, redistributing his weight. “This is what you and Pears and Vey are always running off for after a game?”

“After a good game.” After a bad game they just work out and eat and go the fuck to bed. But they’ve had more good games than bad lately, and Pears is right, being the only one left has some serious downsides.

“Fuck,” Jones says, and there’s not much desperation there but it’s the most Tyler’s ever heard. It feels good, like he’s cleared the path in front of him and he knows exactly where to aim.

“Sure,” Tyler says with his best sleazy smirk. “How do you want to do it?” He unbuttons his pants, squeezes his cock a little through his briefs.

He kind of hopes Joner wants to fuck him. It’s not usually his thing but Pears keeps telling him to get used to it, that he could like it more than he knows, that especially if he thinks he’s got a chance in hell of getting Richards in bed he’s gonna need to love it.

Jones takes off his shirt, dropping it on the carpet. He shoves his sweats down, and he’s naked underneath.

A weight flutters around Tyler’s spine, a heavy anticipation, and it drops down from his shoulders to his lower back. He kicks his shoes and socks away, pushes his jeans and briefs off, too.

“I could ride you,” he offers. What the hell. The first few times Pears started this Tyler wouldn't have known what to ask for either, had never done anything more than jerk off to Xtube with another guy sitting next to him.

Jones just nods. Walks backwards to the bed and sits down with the pillows at his back. Stretches his arms out over the headboard.

“Your choice though, seriously,” Tyler says. He’s not trying to take advantage of the situation, and Pears is right, Joner’s definitely earned whatever he wants.

“That works,” Jones says. His voice is even again. No big deal. He could be leaning back on the posts waiting for them to get their shit together at practice.

Tyler bends down to fish the lube out of his jeans. He tosses it to Jones, who catches it one-handed without breaking his stare.

He throws it right back to Tyler like it’s a lit grenade. “You do it,” he says. “Get yourself ready.”

If Tyler hurries over to kneel on the covers, it’s just because his legs are still sore from a hard night’s skate.

Jones wraps a hand around his own dick, pulling slowly. He’s bigger than Pears, which is the only other dick Tyler’s ever had up his ass, and Tyler pushes back down on his fingers, not really sure it’s going to be enough prep. He’s not going to fucking ask Jones for help, though.

“Condom’s in the bathroom,” Jones says. “Under the shaving kit.” He keeps stroking himself, up and down, up and down, wrist and arm moving at a perfect pace like he’s counting off reps at the gym.

Tyler gets up and goes to find the condom.

This isn’t at all like with Pears and Vey, where they flat-out giggled their way through the first time and never got more serious about it. Sex is pretty fucking ridiculous, especially when you’ve got three hockey players, three dicks on one bed. Tyler had a girlfriend who liked everything to be all sweet and serious, which always kind of stressed him out.

But he remembers Pears talking about Richards—when he finally fucking told them—and even if they didn’t believe it at first, it didn’t sound like Richie had the kind of sex where anybody was laughing.

He gets back on the bed, tossing the condom at Jones. It bounces off his chest and onto the bedspread. Jones doesn’t even flinch.

His cock looks into it, though. Tyler wants to suck it so he does, no warning other than a pretty obvious trajectory of his mouth coming in low and determined. Anyway, what kind of guy needs a fucking heads up before getting a blowjob.

He can hear Jones breathe in fast, open-mouthed and damp sounding, and his abs jump under Tyler's palm. It’s not like he’s yelling and shouting about it but it’s a reaction. Kind of. It’s a start.

When Tyler pulls off for a second, Jones just scoots a little lower on the bed. Tyler says, "You always this excited to get your dick sucked?"

Jones shrugs, and Tyler sighs noisily, resting his forehead on Jones’ hip. He bites the curve there, teeth nipping at warm skin.

Jones leans forward then, puts one huge hand on Tyler’s collarbone, thumb wrapping around his shoulder. Tyler opens his mouth—if being a little shit is what it takes to get some feedback, no one’s ever accused him of coming up short in that area.

Joner slides a thumb between his lips and slaps his cock against Tyler's cheek.

Tyler has never seen that shit outside of a porno. He gasps, tries to play it off like a cough.

Jones does it again, on the other side of his face. It doesn’t hurt, but it’s jarring. It’s a fucking dirty move and Tyler’s dick twitches. He’s always up for things to get a little dirty.

On the third slap, Tyler parts his lips and catches Joner's cock in his mouth, licks around the head. If Joner wants Tyler to act like a porn star, well, he's spent the last couple months acting out some serious three-way jock fetish shit. He can perform.

He’s not going to let Jones mind-fuck him. He thought they were friends, were friendly at least. All rookies stuck in the same goddamned waiting game because they had the good fortune to get signed by a team that didn't need them so desperately, not yet, not until they had no choice.

When this is over—when Quickie’s back on the ice—like it or fucking not Joner's going back to Manch a while and Tyler's pretty damn sure he's staying. Last man standing.

He sucks Joner's cock down hard, once more, and pulls off. Finds the condom and gets it on, stuffing a couple fingers back in himself. Just long enough to realize it's really not going to help anyway so whatever. He’s not going to break.

He straddles Jones across the thighs. Kneels up. Shuffles forward. Reaches back to find Joner's cock and push the head against his hole.

Sinks down on it slow, eyes closed because who gives a shit how Joner's reacting. This is Tyler's victory fuck too—a goal _and_ an assist, chasing the Calder like he fucking owns it.

When he's ready he rises up, sits down on Jones' cock again. Gets a little rhythm going, shoves it back in when it slips free. Opens his eyes to see Jones staring right at him, hands coming up to rest on Tyler's waist like they belong there.

Jones asks, “Is this how you usually do it, when it’s all of you?”

Tyler’s not really sure he can fuck and talk at the same time, not when he’s doing all the work. “No, usually—” Usually it’s more of a race to see who can come first. “It’s—more fun.”

That’s not what he means to say either but it’s true. Who could blame guys in the same shifting boat for wanting to have a little fun while they twiddled their thumbs.

“You’re not having fun?” Jones asks. It’s dry, flat. Tyler’s played with the guy for the better part of three years now and he still has no fucking idea what he means by it. "You're the one who showed up at my door."

“Jesus, Joner,” he says. “Just fuck me like you fucking _mean it_ or something, fuck.”

Joner thrusts up, hard, and sets a faster pace. Tyler has to reach a hand back to balance his weight on Jones’ knee.

He can feel it now, feel how good it is to be so full, like he can almost _taste_ getting fucked all the way in the back of his throat. Like he can see how somebody would want this more than any other way.

He squeezes his ass around Joner’s cock, shoves himself down hard on Jones’ next push.

“That pass,” Jones says suddenly, like it’s punched out of him. “Jesus Christ, Ty, that fucking goal you made—”

He’s still speaking calmly, slowly, but it feels urgent now, important, like maybe he can’t stop talking until Tyler understands. Tyler lets his mouth fall slack, tries to look as dumb as he’s starting to feel. He definitely could stand to hear that shit some more.

“You're so fucking good out there--”

“Oh fuck,” Tyler says, and comes all over Joner's chest.

“Fuck,” Jones says back, stretching the word out like taffy.

He holds Tyler’s hips hard, flips them over and fucks back in as soon as Tyler’s back hits the bed. They're both sweating and his come is sticky where it's rubbing off against Tyler's stomach, and Tyler is trying just to take it, to keep taking it even though he feels so fucking overstimulated that even the scratch of the covers against the muscles in his ass is way too much.

Jones smiles down at him and Tyler inhales and tries to will his center of gravity back up his torso towards his shoulders, titling his hips up like a good stretch so he can urge Jones on with a kick to his back.

“Seven straight,” Tyler says, “you got this,” and Jones groans and comes, burying his face in Tyler’s neck.

When Tyler can breathe again, he laughs into Jones’ hair. Jones shoves weakly at his chest, pushing himself off, pulling out way too fucking fast for Tyler not to grunt a little. He stays close, though, his long body hot against Tyler’s side.

“You almost fucking killed me,” Tyler says.

“Sorry,” Jones says, sounding anything but. “Whatever, half an hour ago I was watching TV and thinking about what I wanted to eat for breakfast.”

Tyler presses his nose to Joner’s arm. “You’re in the big leagues, baby.”

“For now,” Jones says.

“Yeah,” Tyler says, “we got this.”

 

**Author's Note:**

> Jones tied a league record for 8 wins in his first 8 games.


End file.
